


Like Lives Of Beasts

by Quillori



Category: Greek and Roman Mythology
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-25
Updated: 2008-12-25
Packaged: 2018-01-25 03:16:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1628642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quillori/pseuds/Quillori
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Self-knowledge without self-control is a dangerous blessing. Poised on the lip of disaster, Pentheus confronts Dionysus.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like Lives Of Beasts

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Inner Voice (inner_v0ice)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/inner_v0ice/gifts).



 

 

"What is it, exactly, about my hair?" The young man, scarcely more than a boy, was looking up at him cockily, tossing his head a little to clear the thick curls from his eyes. They were large eyes, very dark, and quite devoid of fear. 

Pentheus repressed with some difficulty the undignified but quite understandable urge to slap that look from his face. "It makes you look like a woman. It doesn't befit a man, but then I suppose you wouldn't know that, spending your time lounging around with women and getting drunk. A proper man prefers the company of other men and devotes his time to carrying out his duties. Such a man would be ashamed to look like you."

"You think I should prefer the company of other men? Really?" The youth's voice was a languid tease. "Yet you yourself have thrust, as it were, your company upon me because you say I remind you of a woman. Aren't you a little inconsistent? Or have I misunderstood? Did you mean that it is I and not you who is to play the proper man?"

He gasped when Pentheus punched him, eyes going wide and mouth open, knocked backwards off his knees, sprawled out on his back in the dirt. Yet in only a moment his face was again serene, the corner of his mouth curling a little in mockery, radiating composure and confidence as he stretched gracefully, settling back as though he were choosing to recline on the most comfortable of beds. 

Pentheus, by contrast, felt he had no composure at all. His heart was beating too fast, he was too hot and starting to sweat and he'd been goaded into making a fool of himself, losing his temper against his will. He despised his own lack of control: the way his emotions twisted from his grasp, the way he was still breathing too hard. And there was nothing sensible for him to do. It would hardly be appropriate for him to beat the boy up, but turning heel and walking out would be to hand him the victory. He was ashamed how tempting it was just to rush out of the dark stables into the bright sunlight and put the whole exchange from his mind. But he had just ordered the prisoner be thrown in here and said it was his desire to interrogate him. How would it look if he were seen fleeing from this effeminate stripling?

"I had no idea you felt so strongly about my hair." The boy's eyes wandered coolly over him, doubtless picking out effortlessly the frayed threads by which his self-possession hung. "Many people, many women that is, of course, have found it entirely to their favour. Do you really find you can take no pleasure in it?"

And that was it; surely he couldn't be expected to stand for the boy's lazy mockery, to put up with his insults, his altogether insulting lack of fear. He would take pleasure in that hair alright, pleasure in hacking it short, in seeing the fear grow in the boy's eyes as he seized those too thick curls and yanked his head back, knife in hand. It was so easy to let go, to throw himself on him, pinning him down and pulling his head back painfully, punishing the boy for his own lack of control. 

The boy's breath came harshly as his head was dragged even further back and Pentheus felt a flicker of triumph as he knelt over him. His naked throat was shockingly pale in the gloom, unnaturally bare and vulnerable but still moving smoothly as he swallowed. (With fear, Pentheus thought, he is swallowing with fear.) Leaning in close, it was possible to smell the hard packed soil of the floor, a faint hint of manure, fresh sweat and, incongruously, myrrh, the scent intensifying as he tugged at the boy's hair.

"You've put perfume in it!" Unreasonably shocked by evidence of the very depravity he'd alleged, he sat back a little, knife forgotten, his grip loosening in the wavy entanglement of perfumed hair. The boy shook his head a little, gently, freeing himself enough to look comfortably at Pentheus but not enough to quite escape his grasp; his hair brushed against Pentheus's wrist. 

His dark eyes were entirely serious as they met Pentheus's own, his voice solemn and no longer mocking. "Tell me truly. Why did you have me brought here? What is it that you expect from me?"

The stable was very quiet. Brought back to himself, Pentheus scrambled gracelessly to his feet and backed up a few steps, embarrassed, brushing the dirt from his knees. The boy rose too, with considerably more grace, and stood waiting patiently, as if he deserved an answer. Pentheus couldn't quite bring himself to meet his eyes and turned away instead to pace up and down, his movements jerky with irritation. The silence stretched on; the boy remained motionless, somehow demanding in his very stillness. Pentheus could feel anger simmering behind the irritation, roiling uncomfortably in his guts, pressing inexorably against his will, threatening to overpower him with explosive force. He didn't want to be here, didn't want give an answer when the door was just there and he could easily escape, but on every turn he caught glimpses of the boy out of the corner of his eye: the strong line of his leg, the fragile bones of his wrist, the insolent pout of his mouth, and even though he was sure of the mockery in that dark gaze, he didn't want to leave. Four steps one way, turn, four steps back, and every turn seemed to wind something inside him tighter until he was knew he'd snap and fly apart.

"It is your fault," he spat. "All your fault." And then he was hitting him again, shoving him violently to the ground and falling on him, grinding his face repeatedly in the dirt, almost growling with anger. He was sure somewhere here ... yes, there in the corner was a heap of shackles. He dragged the boy's arms behind his back and viciously slammed the restraints closed, dragging a heavy chain through the cup lock; he treated the boy's ankles similarly, his hand slipping between rough metal and warm skin. He was sure the boy must be whining by now in pain and humiliation, but he was face down on the stable floor and Pentheus was breathing too loud himself to hear it, gasping for desperate lungfuls of air, head hung down and fists clenching on the boy's legs. The fetters made dark bands across the white skin of his wrists and ankles. If he struggled at all they were sure to bruise; if he struggled enough no doubt they would tear the skin. Pentheus imagined for a moment the blood trickling down the soft skin on the inside of the boy's arm, the ragged edges of the abrasion, the dark blood stains smearing across his tunic.

It wasn't enough. It couldn't be enough, not until he'd brought the boy down to his level, left him broken, as shattered as Pentheus felt, clawing for pieces of himself that no longer fitted together. He rolled the boy clumsily onto his back and immediately hit him across the face, thinking longingly of the bruise it would leave. His blow split the edge of the boy's lip, which would have to do until the bruise had time to form. The boy's tongue darted out and ran cautiously over the split, then licked his dry lips, daubing them with blood and saliva, transfixing Pentheus with a thrill of what must surely be disgust. "Degenerate," he shouted. "Pervert. Filthy, despicable animal." He could hear his heart pounding loudly in his ears, but it didn't matter: surely by now he had set the boy's heart racing equally as fast with fear. He dug his fingers in the boy's shoulders and jerked him up to hiss in his face. "You bitch. Making yourself up like a woman, making men look at you. Driving everyone mad."

The boy gazed back at him, dark eyes altogether too knowing. "I am not ashamed," he said, voice quiet and kind, bold only in its lack of fear.

Pentheus was seized with fury, slamming the boy back to the ground, striking him again and again, ripping desperately at his clothes, his hair, scratching his skin to see the blood well up. He could feel his own face contorting into a snarl as he bit at the boy's neck, his collarbone, gouging his teeth into the flesh, pushing his own body closer, closer, as he tried to force on the body beneath him his own guilt, everything he couldn't or shouldn't do, everything duty and honour were there to save him from.

But nothing lasts forever, and eventually even his fury was exhausted, leaving him to collapse panting, almost sobbing from exertion, too weak and spent and dizzy to stay upright. It was very comfortable lying there, and rather peaceful. The darkness was soothing, as was the warmth and steady breathing of the boy. It was very easy and very pleasant just to lie unmoving and let time slip past unmarked, the world flowing easily around him, making no demands.

He wasn't sure he'd ever felt like this before, so unrestricted and at ease. It was delightful. Indeed, he was suddenly struck by how delightful absolutely everything was and he could feel laughter welling up. The young man had shifted up onto one side to lean over him a little, so Pentheus could gaze up easily at his beautiful face. Pentheus raised one hand lazily, smoothing away a streak of dirt on that perfect cheek, and was rewarded when the youth's eyes went warm with approval and he smiled and kissed Pentheus's thumb, catching it for a moment between his white teeth, a shivery little sting, instantly soothed.

Pentheus would have been content to watch him indefinitely, admiring the ambiguous curve of his smile, but it was getting harder to hold his eyes open and he had to keep blinking them back into focus. While the giddy thought did cross his mind that two were surely better than one, he was grateful that the young man leaned down to brush his lips against Pentheus's lashes and tell him he could give up the losing fight.

"It's alright, Pentheus," he murmured, breath warm and sweet. "I don't mind if you close them. I don't need you to see." 

Lying there, head tipped back and eyes closed, there was a strange illusion, as though the floor itself was shifting and swaying, spinning lazily in great circles, but it was by no means unpleasant, blending hypnotically with the sleepy murmur of the young man's honeyed voice, confiding and intimate in the dark.

"Listen to me. Think about how you've conquered me. The question was who was to be master, that was all. Now that you have me in just the position you wanted, perhaps we may find other things for you to want."

Pentheus regretted the shackles now; it would have been nice to have a hand caressing his hair as he listened, holding him close.

"Think about the things you could do. Aren't you curious to see the maenads for yourself, drunk on sweet wine and throwing off all restraint? Imagine them: a whole troop of women, flushed and bright-eyed, their hair fallen loose over their shoulders. They're scattered over the hillside, nestling together in twos and threes, like little birds. I'm sure you realise how their dresses must be immodestly torn, some ripped almost to shreds. A few of them are teasing each other, stroking delicate hands playfully over the rent material, slipping their slim fingers through the holes in quick caresses. Others lean their heads together conspiratorially as they share the honey licked from their ivy wands. 

"I fear some few of them, having abandoned young babies at home, are now driven to desperation: one, enterprising, has caught a savage wolf cub to suckle at her breast; another, less lucky in the hunt, has torn away her dress, unable to bear the rough rasp of linen. Now she cups her heavy breasts, begging her friends piteously for relief. Other women, still unmarried, have caught snakes to play with, letting them wind round their slender limbs, laughing at the flicker of their tongues. 

"Then, with no warning, the pipes start playing, every woman swaying to her feet, caught helplessly by the music. Somewhere a drumbeat begins, the rhythm speeding wildly as frantic hands bang the stretched hide. The women's feet are bare as they stamp the wet grass in growing ecstasy, throwing back their heads and spinning wildly, round and round." He stopped in concern as Pentheus gripped his waist and clung tight. "Are you alright?"

"Dizzy." His tongue felt thick and clumsy, his words slurring into each other despite his care. "Less spinning would be good."

"I'm very sorry. In any case, the maenads may well turn out to be chaste and modest. You said quite clearly that's how you'd want them to behave, and who would dare disobey your word in your own lands? Now let me think if there's something else you might like instead. Surely there must be some little thing you're curious to try?"

The young man paused, considering, "You said my hair looks like a woman's. Have you ever given any thought to your own? It would be so easy to scent and curl it nicely. It is perhaps a little short, but I assure you many women rely on false additions. I think you would look quite charming."

There must, Pentheus was sure, be some fundamental flaw in the idea, but all that presented itself to him was how ridiculous a woman's hairstyle would look with his normal clothes; it was a shame, really, because it was nice to imagine sitting regal before a bronze mirror as a maid fussed over each wave, arranging it perfectly. He therefore stirred himself to voice an objection only with some reluctance, relieved when it was dismissed without effort.

"Nothing could be simpler: you just have to wear a woman's dress as well. I can imagine it now: you'll stand naked in your bedroom, turning this way and that as you arrange it in becoming drapes, tying the girdle low around your waist. Perhaps you'll run the fabric through you fingers, amazed how much finer it is than what you make do with now. In truth, I'm surprised a man such as yourself can bear the rough clothes you insist on wearing. But let us continue: it wasn't at all my intention to insult your taste.

"As you walk around the room, the dress will brush in soft, tantalising waves against your calves, falling in heavy folds between your thighs. I can see you swaying your hips, moving with delicate little steps, refined and perfectly elegant." Here he paused again to contemplate the image. "I should think your skin will be a little flushed by now, enough to be grateful to be wrapped in such fine, cool linen. You mustn't forget to lower your eyes coquettishly and bite at your lips as women do to make them full and rosy.

'It would be so easy, of course, for you to do all this in secret, hiding away from anyone's eyes, devoting yourself only to your own pleasure. But then again, secrets are shameful things, don't you agree? It would be so much better in public, gazed at by all. I like to think of you indulging yourself like that, quite given over to your own desires. I don't like to consider you shunning the things you most want, sternly forcing yourself into the arid course of duty. Be guided by me: there's no need at all for you to be so concerned with what other people will think."

The words seemed to fill Pentheus with fire. He felt powerful, invincible: he would go out at once and order things to his liking. Why was he, ruler of Thebes, stuck in this gloomy stable? He should be striding forth and setting all to rights, not given over to doubt and weakness, constantly fighting himself. Filled with determination, he set his mind firmly on the future and stumbled to his feet, staggering a little as he bent to pick up his knife, which for some reason was lying abandoned in the dirt. He made his way the across the stable with somewhat uncertain steps, the ground distressingly uneven and distances hard to judge in the dim light. Putting out a hand to steady himself, he threw open the stable door; in the courtyard outside the sunlight was very bright, everything unnaturally, painfully clear in its vivid glare. 

 


End file.
